The Pioneer
A little mound on the mountain, a little cross in the clay,
And wheel-spoor filling with water where the wagons turn'd away;
A trampled break in the long grass where the cattle were inspann'd,
And the Pioneer has wander'd to look for his newer land.
The clouds still hung on the skyline, the grass still bent with the rain,
When the crows came back to the outspan to peck for wasted grain,
And a jackal tripp'd to the clearing to nuzzle, and tremble, and peer,
And to scratch, 'tween whiles of waiting, the tomb of the Pioneer.
Only a jackal anigh him in the bed where he is laid,
And six lone feet of the highveld by the road that he had made
For the feet of the coming peoples, far back and so long ago, —
Yet they curs'd his road for an ape-track ...
Ah, brother, they did not know!
He was the bravest among them, he was the pick of the crowd,
Dauntless, and frugal, and cunning; tireless, blooded, and proud.
But he gave his pride to his people, and he spill'd his blood for the land,
And he alter'd, and alter'd, and alter'd, — and they could not understand....
He was the first man to venture, he was the first man to find!
Trusting his life to his rifle, groping ahead in the blind!
Seeking new lands for his people! — This is the end of the day,
A little mound on the mountain, a little cross in the clay;
A hungry jackal above him, a sombre flock of crows,
A trampled break on the highveld where the sour hill-grass grows,
And six lone feet in the bleakness where the weeping hill-winds sough,
For his work is done and accomplish'd, and — he is not wanted now.
This is the end of his labour, this is the end of his play: —
Fresh wheel-spoor, filling with water, where the wagons turn'd away;
Cold sleep on the sodden upland that he was the first to find,
And never a voice to mourn him, but the voice of the wet hill-wind.
A little brown in the greenness, an empty tin by the trail,
Smoke-wreaths sinking to leeward as the dying fires fail;
Pattering paws above him, and hungry eyes that peer,
Is the end of a gallant venture; the pay of the Pioneer.
And wheel-spoor filling with water where the wagons turn'd away;
A trampled break in the long grass where the cattle were inspann'd,
And the Pioneer has wander'd to look for his newer land.
The clouds still hung on the skyline, the grass still bent with the rain,
When the crows came back to the outspan to peck for wasted grain,
And a jackal tripp'd to the clearing to nuzzle, and tremble, and peer,
And to scratch, 'tween whiles of waiting, the tomb of the Pioneer.
Only a jackal anigh him in the bed where he is laid,
And six lone feet of the highveld by the road that he had made
For the feet of the coming peoples, far back and so long ago, —
Yet they curs'd his road for an ape-track ...
Ah, brother, they did not know!
He was the bravest among them, he was the pick of the crowd,
Dauntless, and frugal, and cunning; tireless, blooded, and proud.
But he gave his pride to his people, and he spill'd his blood for the land,
And he alter'd, and alter'd, and alter'd, — and they could not understand....
He was the first man to venture, he was the first man to find!
Trusting his life to his rifle, groping ahead in the blind!
Seeking new lands for his people! — This is the end of the day,
A little mound on the mountain, a little cross in the clay;
A hungry jackal above him, a sombre flock of crows,
A trampled break on the highveld where the sour hill-grass grows,
And six lone feet in the bleakness where the weeping hill-winds sough,
For his work is done and accomplish'd, and — he is not wanted now.
This is the end of his labour, this is the end of his play: —
Fresh wheel-spoor, filling with water, where the wagons turn'd away;
Cold sleep on the sodden upland that he was the first to find,
And never a voice to mourn him, but the voice of the wet hill-wind.
A little brown in the greenness, an empty tin by the trail,
Smoke-wreaths sinking to leeward as the dying fires fail;
Pattering paws above him, and hungry eyes that peer,
Is the end of a gallant venture; the pay of the Pioneer.
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